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MDK - CRYPTOFUNK

by MDK (Morgan David King)

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about

Ahhh, Cryptofunk Industries. Number of hidden exits? Two. Secret rooms? Seven. Booby traps? Three. Okay four, but only one is consistently lethal. Truly an appropriate lair for a maniacal man of medicine to dwell. Located deep within the bowels of The Velvet Voyager, these creepy lower corridors once served as the ship’s medical bay, with a focus on preserving life. However, following Smooth Jazz’s abrupt liberation of the spaceship, that quickly ceased to be the case. Currently residing in this hospital of horrors was none other than Dr. Walter P. Wubbenstein, the Far-Out Physician of Funk.

A self-proclaimed mastermind and drummer of Smooth Jazz’s band, Walter was incredibly gifted: rhythmically, scientifical—

“I SAID DON’T TOUCH THAT, YOU IDIOT!” shrieked Wubbenstein, over the sound of shattering glass.

...but a bit lacking, socially. However, much to our favorite, moustached front man’s dismay, the easily-enraged academic certainly did add a lot of value to their crooked crew. Wubbenstein’s attitude was an acquired taste, but he made up for it by supplying the Corsairs with a never-ending assortment of nefariously funky technology. The murky grey area of intergalactic space-law left the screwy scientist free to his own devices, creating one twisted monstrosity after another.

“Sheesh, take it easy, Walter” chuckled Smooth Jazz unapologetically from across the lab. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he carelessly stepped over a pile of broken test tubes, the contents of which were now bubbling viciously on the floor. Unphased by the doctor’s angry outburst he made his way over to Wubbenstein, who was busy adding the pièce de résistance to his latest, crazy contraption.

“Just trying to help you clear out some of this CryptoJUNK, Doc! Bahahaha, got ‘em!” The boisterous band leader continued to poke fun at his friend “Now remind me again why we’ve wasted all night hauling this toxic sludge back here?”

A long line of Corsairs funneled into the room, each with a hefty, metal barrel slung over their shoulder. Per Wubbenstein’s request, Smooth Jazz had ordered the soldiers to scavenge the battlefield, bringing whatever remains of the Jelly Castle they could find back to the spaceship. Sweating profusely, they ferried the wub-filled waste to the far corner of the room, emptying the barrels into a large, transparent tank one by one.

“First of all, you haven’t hauled anything” snapped Wubbenstein, tossing an empty roll of tape at his toxic teammate. “Second, I explained it perfectly the first time. You were just too busy complaining about how hungry you are. Again.” With body language as dismissive as his tone, he gave Smooth Jazz one last look of disapproval before sashaying across the room to the nearly-full reservoir. The giant, steel, drum was hap hazardously connected via a series of tubes and wires to an extremely modified Super Ultra vending machine. Smacking its front-facing power button, Wubbenstein took a step back as the machine’s pumping mechanism began to groan, struggling to move the copious amounts of thick, green sludge. With a vile, squelchy eruption that could put even the most gastrointestinally-challenged Corsair to shame, the clogged pipe finally gave way and the jelly began to flow.

“THAT’S MY GIRL!” screamed Wubbenstein, beaming with pride. “So, as I said: when exposed to Wubstep, this vile, green garbage becomes activated. Activation causes the jelly to resonate, which produces a series of overtones that greatly amplify the wubbage level of all nearby sound waves. These overtones are precisely spaced out at the most heinous of all intervals: perfect fifths.” Wubbenstein paused to shudder dramatically. “FORTUNATELY, we can use my brilliant, patent-pending process, Funkification™, to modify this resonance and cause it to sound much smoother…ironically by sharpening the aforementioned overtones." Wubbenstein paused, clearly proud of his grade-school level wordplay.

“Ugh, drummers...” scoffed Smooth Jazz, shaking his head in disapproval. "Don’t try to be cute, Walter. We all know what a sharp seventh is. What I don’t understand is why I’m supposed to care about any of this nonsense.”

As if on cue, a whimsical chime rang out from the machine, punctuating the end of his sentence. The big metal box began to tremble, quickly escalating into a full-on violent shake before abruptly coming to a halt. The front panel opened in a cloud of steam and a small, shiny bottle emerged.

“If only your music were as smooth as your brain, maybe we’d get booked more often…” muttered Walter under his breath as he retrieved his prize. “In terms that even you would understand: this bodacious little beverage will temporarily diminish the effect that Wubstep has on the Corsair body. I call it…7th UP!” cackled the doctor, holding up the drink. “…TM”, he added, with a paranoid twitch above his right eye. The uncomfortable silence radiating from his bandmate ignited Wubbenstein’s anxiety, and he began to ramble uncontrollably “Alternatively I’ve also thought of Phunk Gunk? Or maybe Jazz Juice? I kind of like Mellow Mud but perhaps we should go with Blues Ooz—"

“Oh my god, I don’t care what it’s called!” screamed the crusty corsair captain, “it doesn’t look like anything more than a jar of gross, purple goo. What do you expect me to do with it?”

“I mean, it is beverage shaped for a reason,” hinted Wubbenstein, twisting off the cap and holding out the mysterious liquid.

“Walter, my dude. You can’t be serious,” scoffed Smooth Jazz, glaring at his friend’s outstretched hand. “Remember what happened when you had me try that ‘new flavor of Super Ultra?’ There’s not a lotta trust left here, vis-à-vis the whole ‘hey, drink this’ routine. Besides, I highly doubt your little potion is somehow gonna make me immune to Wubstep.”

“I TOLD YOU” snapped Wubbenstein “I have absolutely no idea how those radioactive grundlesnorf eggs ended up in your can. But fine. FINE. In the name of freakishly funky science, I, the prodigal Dr. Walter P. Wubbenstein, will be the firs—

“WALTER. Get on with it!” yelled Smooth Jazz, shaking his head while cringing in second-hand embarrassment. It was getting quite late, and he’d certainly had his fill of one-on-one time with Wubbenstein for the week.

The rambunctious ruler of rhythm brought the bottle to his nose, sniffing enthusiastically before downing it in a single, impressive swig. Letting out a loud belch, he daintily wiped his mouth before pointing at a nearby control panel, calling out to his band mate, “Alright, go sit down over there. You work the controls”.

***

“So, ya feelin’ very funky yet, doc? Doc? HEY DOC, YOU LISTENIN?”

“Wh-wh-what the...?” stammered Wubbenstein, slowly coming back to life as Smooth Jazz aggressively snapped his fingers in front of the doctor’s face.

“Whoa, what the FUNK, Walter? Your pupils are the size of dinner plates! I’ll take that as a yes – can we finally get started? As thrilling as it is watching you do literally nothing, I actually did have plans tonight.”

The peculiar pair of performers had been sitting in the dimly lit medical facility for nearly half an hour, waiting for the effects of Wubbenstein’s crazy cocktail to kick in. The doctor was strapped into a rather daunting-looking device, surrounded by an array of speakers and metal tubing. Next to him was a button-covered electronic display, with the words “WUB-O-METER” at the top.

“Yeah, it’s definitely starting to kick in,” mumbled the deranged drummer. “Guess it’s now or never, hey? Alright, boot her up and watch the magic happen. First, she’s gonna measure my funk levels, s—”

“…she, Walter?” interrupted Smooth Jazz, uncertain he wanted to hear the answer. Twirling his moustache in anticipation he exited through a door on the far side of the room before reappearing behind a wall of soundproof glass, where he had a clear view of Wubbenstein. Flicking the power switch on the console in front of him, he watched as the strange device crackled to life, and a sultry, feminine voice rang out from a nearby loudspeaker.

[HELLO, WELCOME TO CRYPTOFUNK INDUSTRIES, NEFARIOUSLY FUNKY TE-TE-TE-TE-TE—]

“You’ve gotta be kidding me” groaned Smooth Jazz, slapping the side of the console impatiently. The blow caused the robotic greeting to stutter mid-sentence, then fizzle out entirely. The screen briefly went dead, then flickered back to life with the words “SCAN COMPLETE” barely visible in the middle.

[MAXIMUM F-F-F-FUNK ACHIEVED. STANDBY. INITIATING PHASE 2.]

“HEY! You treat her with respect!” screamed Wubbenstein, from the other side of the glass. “Now, see the knob labeled ‘WUBBAGE’? Gently bring her up to level 3.”

Spotting the knob on the righthand side, Smooth Jazz grabbed hold and carelessly cranked it clockwise, setting it significantly past level 4. “Okay done. Now what?”

“That’s it. This is what science is, you impatient imbecile,” barked Wubbenstein, clearly fed up with his cohort’s lack of enthusiasm. “Alright, it’s starting. I’m turning off comms, you don’t want to hear this.”

Muting his end of the line, Wubbenstein looked at the assortment of speakers facing him, gulping nervously as their subwoofers began to pulse rhythmically. He was currently facing any Corsair’s worst nightmare – a big ol’ blast of Wubstep, right in the earholes. However, Smooth Jazz’s cynicisms aside, the dastardly doctor did appear to be standing his ground, unflinching as the wub-filled waves pummeled his entire body. The 7th Up appeared to be working after all, and the moustached maestro of mayhem couldn’t hide how impressed he was, uncharacteristically cheering the doctor on.

“WOOO! Hell yeah, Walter! Let’s say we crank this thing up to eleven!”

“I-I told you,” stammered Wubbenstein, turning the intercom once again. He was out of breath and his voice had significantly less bark than usual. Clearly the Wubstep was still taking a toll on him. “The formula isn’t perfected, high dosages of Wubstep can still trigger permanent muta—"

“C’mon, I thought you were the ‘prodigal’ Dr. Wubbenstein?” chirped Smooth Jazz, with an evil twinkle in his eye. “In the name of science, right?” he grabbed the knob once more and forced it all the way to the right, sending the levels of wubbage inside the test chamber skyrocketing.

“WAI--” Wubbenstein’s plea was cut short as Smooth Jazz slammed his fist down on the mute button, severing the connection. Lighting a fresh cigarette, he calmly took a long drag and watched as the glass in front of him began to rattle relentlessly. Wubbenstein’s eyes went wide, and his body began to thrash against the restraints that held him in place.

[UH OH, WUBSTEP OVERLOAD DETECTED. SYSTEM DESTABALIZING – PLEASE, STAND BACK]

“Uhh…Walter? So funny story. I did exactly what you told me to, but now it won’t let me shut it off” Pawing frantically at the buttons in front of him, Smooth Jazz moved with a newfound sense of urgency. “Walter? WALTER? Shit. This thing’s totally busted!”

The warning lights on the console began to flash red, casting the entire room in an ominous glow. A deafeningly loud alarm began to blare, echoing throughout the corridors of the laboratory. Suddenly, a maniacal, cackling laugh erupted out of the nearby loudspeaker.

[MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA – YOU. MUST. DIE!]

TO BE CONTINUED…

credits

released November 18, 2022

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MDK (Morgan David King) Vancouver, British Columbia

Morgan David King (MDK) is a 31-year-old electronic music producer hailing from Vancouver, Canada. He enjoys long walks on the beach, and making weird-ass music for y'all to jam out to.

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